Welcome to the show, folks! This is Don Donaldson Donnelly with you
tonight for a very, very special
edition of Cock ‘n Balls. For all of you
zombies watching at home, we have some preeeeetty special breaking news in
tonight which our live studio audience is already somewhat privy to. Some of you might have heard it, but here it
is, straight from the horse’s mouth—deathhas finally been explained! Uncannily, scientists and thinkers around the
world have synchronically discovered a common exposition of what it is to die. Heavy stuff, folks, but it’s about time that
old elephant in the room did a few tricks for us. But before we get into the nitty-gritty of it
all, let’s get a quick taste of our brand new…brand…of infomercials—now completely void of marketing and sales
techniques due to a gross decrease in public attention, due, no doubt, to the
now-comprehensive understanding of human obliteration from bodily form.

Don sweeps his hand across the screen, but
the cut is late and we’re stuck watch a frozen Don, arm outstretched, plastic
smile, waiting awkwardly. His eyes dart
rapidly before the belated cut.

Amidst death infomercial: An advertisement;
the scene is a train, late at night. A
girl sits opposite a young man. She
suddenly starts coughing and making purging glottal sounds—quite
disturbing. The young man looks
uncomfortably across. Just as he goes to
ask if she’s alright she coughs something up; it splatters all over the window
of the train. It looks like semen. He looks horrified. She holds her hand to her mouth in
embarrassment. An old woman walking past
squints at the splattered window. “Looks
like cum, love.” There is more of the
substance dribbling down the girl’s top.
Black screen with the words “Swallowing—it’s worth it.” Voice over: “Cockbreath Lozenges: Lodge one
today.”

Well wasn’t that something, folks (laughing
uncomfortably as he speaks).

So lets move along then and see what famous people
whose words we blindly and thoughtlessly respect have to say about today’s
breakthrough.

An artsy-looking director sits in a chair,
resting his effeminate hands upon his little, neat, triangular goatee.

In a dense American accent, he babbles:
“Well, lots of us knew…right? I mean it
was there all along, garnishing our food, pitching our tents. All we needed was a little buzz, a little
love—you know? It’s not like reality
defines death; they’re two sides of the same coconut, you know? And here we are, the same as before…”

“The gardens were the
general centrifugal force in this bringing together to ultimate density the
ravages of bodily decay and the ensuing condition universally titled,
‘death’. What was previously thought to
be an opposition between the existence of matter and energy, or
soul/mind—whatever—has largely proven false,” (looks to televised news anchor,
who looks like a confused and indignant child) “…basically, Don, it’s all the same thing…”.

A dumb smile seems to grow outside the
bounds of Don’s face as he turns from the scientist to the camera: “Well,
folks, you heard it. Spoken by the best,
heeded by the rest. Don D. Donnelly with
you today, our main story today being the profound discovery of the explanation
of…well, death. There it is gentlemen,
in a chestnut shell. Stay tuned for
bite-sized updates throughout the show—but for now, over to Cole for the sports
update!”

“Well, Don, nothing really seems to matter
much anymore because we’ve figured out death and the interconnectedness of all
being and process—that pretty much de-signifies the sports, in my humble
opinion. Though I hear there are some
folks out there who STILL, HAVEN’T, heard-about-the-explanation-of-death
Don! That really blows, folks. Those metaphysical crises are quiiiickly
becoming oh-so pre-twenty-first century!” INFOMERCIALS!

Sit-com add: You know, Terry, you get pretty
fuckin’ irrational when you drink that wine.
You never listen to me, you’re always fuckin’ angry at somethin’, even
if ya don’t think people notice it. It’s
like you’re all raged inside and just waitin’ for some fuckin’ reason to snap.

Jim, you’re being a complete hypocrite. You’re a cunt, a bloody cunt. What’s that?
Wine in your hand, too! And you try to project your repression onto
me, like I’m a stranger in the fuckin’ street!

Boss: Where the bloody hell is he? Where’s Milroy? People run about frantically; he address one
woman flying past in his first and another in his second question. Papers are flying through the air.

Milroy appears from behind a towering shelf. Boss asks him where the fuck he’s been and he
says, ‘In my heeeeaaad, man! Tryin’a figure out the universe—Shiet!’

Milroy, what the fuck are you on about? Get
back on that fork and MAKE ME MY MONEY!

Two friendly stoners sit on a bench at
night, in the darkness, by the beach.

The…frequencies…are…too-ooo

You’re stoned dude. It’s probably not real.

Black Guy (walking out from the dark): Iiiiin-correct, son. The frequencies travel through time and space and when they finally reach that stooooned eardrum of yours
they’ll hit tiny little hairs, which then, somehow, chemically absorb the sound
waves and translate them into neuronal information, which we perceive as music
or speech or what not. You work in conjunction with that
sweet-tasting Mary Jane and create a new
reality, a new state of consciousness
and thus a new experience of sound;
it’s not a false state of mind—unless yo workin’ with standards of reality—but
rather a different one with a different experience involved.

Beat.

So don’t go gettin’ high and…forgettin’ to
respect the ways.

They stare blankly; he turns to leave and
raises two fingers.

Peace.

Walks off into suburbia.

(Shaman don’t lie).

I had an idea once. Reeeeaaal gu’den. But I got too stoned.

Beat.

Stoned that fucker to death.

(Maaan, niggas-a deeead; all we gots is
whiggaz’n fools).

Maaate, come out front, check out the new
wheels!

Friend stumbles out, stares at the same old
shit heap he’s been staring at for years.

…What?
This is the same old Laser you’ve always had!

Mate kneels down in excitement, points at
the wheels.

Not quite, mate; new wheeeeeels! (Big grin)

A baby was found today covered from head to
toe in self-raising flour. The mother, a
heroin addict, was later questioned by police and claimed to have thought the
flour would “raise” the child, shifting responsibility from her to the
flour. This, she said, would allow more
time to search for smack. Back to you, Don.

Well, Pete…that is a dilly of a pickle. (The two men laugh simultaneously, in a
similar tone and with similar rhythm—and stop at the same time).

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Both a creative and a more reflective blog are included here. I've been writing since I was a wee lad and now feel the craft is aligned with the mental faculties which are all fuelled by the heart which is fuelled by Brahman or some such brilliant thing. Thank God! Please enjoy. It's as real as I can manage to engineer the damn thing...